


The Sparring Match

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Brotherhood, Brothers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Magic, Magic Realism, Shapeshifting, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Sparring, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:31:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sort of aftermath story based on the same AU I developed for "The Schattenfreunde." It picks up some weeks after those events. It is definitely part of the same fantasy world, with shapeshifters and werewolves and monsters, and so on. </p><p>It is almost entirely character study and world building, though it does wrap up one critical bit of detail that was integral to the first story, but never had the right place to be introduced as an explanation. So, now one less loose end is there for me to fret about.</p><p>Implied Mystrade.</p><p>Oh, and it's a gift to Dormiensa, as she wanted MORE! XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sparring Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dormiensa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/gifts).



“Why a horse?” John asked. He sat on the paddock fence on the Holmes estate, watching his best friend try, for the twentieth time, to dance the shape of his elder brother’s Friesian dressage horse—trying to match it in all details but one. Sherlock seemed uninterested in dancing a gelding form rather than a stallion. “Why not something like Mycroft’s tiger?”

Sherlock, sitting stark naked on the soft earth of the paddock, frowned in annoyance. “Because every time I try to dance a tiger I end up in my leopard shift. It appears I’m conditioned to the expectation.”

“Then a bear, like that monster Bad Tiger danced.”

“Later,” Sherlock growled. He gathered himself again, and focused on the dance.

Moments later John gave a congratulatory shout, and laughed as Sherlock bucked, then cantered around the paddock. Out in the fields beyond, Mycroft’s dressage mount whickered a challenge and a greeting, bewildered by the sudden appearance of a new horse, but willing to be polite.

John grinned as Sherlock trumpeted back a stallion’s territorial roar. The poor dressage horse bounced and stamped, unsettled and confused.

Sherlock, apparently, was no more polite as a horse than he was as anything else.

The jet-black shifter bucked and sunfished and galloped around the fenced space. He finished with a few bunny-hops, then shook like a big dog, setting the long, silken mane flying, and tossing the equally silken tail. Then he took a victory lap, head up, neck arched, tail raised high to show off the cascade of hair, hooves flashing, bum tight and round. Oh, yes. Sherlock knew he was pretty.

No doubt that was why he’d decided to dance Mycroft’s dressage horse. If Sherlock was going to dance a form, he was going to dance a form as gorgeous as he was in his own form, decked out in his Belstaff, hair a tumble of Byronic curls.

John laughed to himself. He’d spent enough time researching shift-dancing to have strong suspicions why his friend wasn’t trying to dance the vast bear they’d faced recently, too. There was a good chance the big Friesian was at the outer edge of his ability to dance—and was a huge leap in size from the leopard Sherlock had been happy to limit himself to previously. Only blatant envy and resentment of his brother and his DI, who’d proven to be hiding skills of which Sherlock had not been aware, had goaded the vain man into expanding his skill-set…and even his vanity wasn’t enough to allow him to leap from a human-sized leopard dance to a monster the size of the prehistoric bear…

Or to come even close in size to Lestrade’s gryphon, or, even more, Mycroft’s huge Tudor dragon.

Poor Sherlock was inching his way up, trying to improve his control, and the Friesian was sufficiently distinct from Mycroft and Lestrade’s beasts to avoid too odious a comparison. And no doubt Sherlock would have come up with a plausible excuse…

“It gives me an option of carrying a rider,” Sherlock said, casually, later, as he pulled his jacket back on before dropping onto a bench up on the terrace outside Mycroft’s music room. “After all, there are times it’s inconvenient to have you wearing the wolf, and other times the moon’s so much against you that you can’t manage it. And of course, there’s Mary.”

“Mmm.” John hid a grin. Mary had never held them back, but if Sherlock needed to convince himself that Mary needed his help to keep up, then let him. She herself would find it amusing to ride their dear friend around. He squinted, then, gazing out over the green fields and lawns of Holmescroft. “Is that…”

“What?”

“Mycroft and Lestrade?”

“What?!” Sherlock stood and came to stand at the terrace rail, following John’s gaze. He swore, then.

“Problem?” John asked.

“Didn’t bother telling Mike we’d be here,” Sherlock admitted, sullenly.

“He likely to mind?”

“No,” Sherlock snarled. “He’ll be polite and gracious and I’ll want to kick him in the shins.”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Of what?” Sherlock sniffed. “It’s  not as though I want the place. Come on—they’re headed down to the river acres. If we hurry we can get a good view from behind the willow.”

“Are you suggesting we spy on them?”

“Of course,” Sherlock grinned. “Come on. I used to spy on Mike all the time when he was a teenager.”

“Thus explaining your excellent relationship now,” John murmured, eyes laughing. “No doubt he just loved that.”

“Hated it,” Sherlock said, sounding far too pleased about it. “Caught him smoking. Caught him necking with one of the stable boys. Good times, John. Good times.”

By then they were halfway down a long slope that hooked to the right, and ended at a small stream edged with long, graceful weeping willows.

“This way—yes. Good.” Sherlock led his friend to a particularly grand tree with long, supple weeping wands hanging low, making a veil of murmuring green. There was a bench in the room formed by the tree’s natural arching umbrella. “Good view, yeah?”

It was a good view, across the stream and onto  a flat meadow shielded from the sight of anyone on the estate or on the road that ran by.

As John sat, two men stolled easily out onto the meadow.

John studied them. No doubt to Sherlock they were communicating dozens of fine, telling details. John knew what he saw probably wasn’t what his friend saw. But what he saw was, in his opinion, quite interesting enough.

They were, rather to his surprise, comfortable with each other—Sherlock’s older brother and DI Lestrade. Mycroft was wearing relaxed country tweeds—a sartorial choice even John could interpret as “country gentry dressed casually for recreation, not formal activity.” Lestrade was in jeans and a red footballer’s jersey printed with the Arsenal shield and cannon. Each appeared to be in a good mood, in his own manner: Mycroft smiling his tight, self-conscious grin, moving with energy but not much ease; Lestrade grinning happily, flashing white, straight teeth, and moving far more fluidly. Mycroft said something, and Lestrade threw his head back and belled out a shout of laughter John could hear all the way across the stream.

He was, temporarily, startled when the two men crossed to a rough log bench at the side of the meadow and began to strip. It wasn’t anything he expected of them, to say the least. Then logic cut in, and he realized that, just as Sherlock had been forced to strip to dance the Friesian horse, Mycroft and Lestrade must be preparing to dance their own shift forms.

He leaned forward, interested, beginning to suspect what might be under way. There had been shifter units in the Army, and they’d had to practice their combat skills as much as anyone. He’d seen shift-combat matches before. He wasn’t startled, then, when the two men, naked and unashamed, took positions in mid-field, a few yards apart, and bowed to each other, formally.

Then, though—oh, then!

He could not have said which man shifted first. He could say, without question, he’d never seen such a seamless, instantaneous change, both men seeming only to shimmer for a moment—light on water, rainbow in mist—and then they were changed, and already in motion.

Fox and ferret, he thought, laughing, as Mycroft’s lean ginger-brown ferret, bandit masked, leaped up and over Lestrade’s laughing fox, tagging him on the head as he passed. The fox somersaulted, rolling and twisting, and appeared to nip the tip of the ferret’s tail, leading to a squeal that forced a sudden laugh from John, that he barely managed to muffle.

They raced over the meadow, pouncing on each other, nipping, tumbling each other, pinning each other only to yip or squeal, losing the advantage, losing control of their captive prey. Sometimes all John could see was the rippling wake of grass and flowers as the two shapers raced through the tall meadow. Once Lestrade reduced John to helpless, silent giggles, complete with tears leaking slowly down his face, as the red fox leaped high, over and over, for all the world as though he were riding a pogo stick, trying to view the field from a high enough point to see over the grass. And when Mycroft, apparently only a foot or so in front of the fox, hidden in the thick growth, leaped up in perfect time, nose-to-nose, leading to the fox simply coming to startled pieces in mid-jump?

Somehow John had never really noticed the element of whimsical mischief in Mycroft before; he tended to interpret the older man though the eyes of his ever-irked younger brother, who saw little in Mycroft to admire. In this changed context, though, it was impossible to miss the glittering, quicksilver playfulness, as the little ferret teased his fight-partner.

The fox teased back, though this was less of a surprise to John. He knew Lestrade’s humor well…just as he knew the personality that led the fox to firmly, effectively tumble Mycroft arse-over-teakettle when he failed to guard himself effectively.

John had no idea what led to the next shift—only that the fox gave way to a soaring owl, and the ferret disappeared, replaced by a darting, exquisite merlin—red breasted, agile, elegant.

Sherlock gasped, and swore softly….then, second later, swore again in a different tone.

John, who’d interpreted the first oath as pure frustrated envy that his brother had yet another shift form, was puzzled by the second. “What?”

“I got it—how Bad Tiger ‘appeared’ and ‘disappeared.’ He had a bird form. Something small, like Mike’s merlin. The eye would never find it with a fast change—imagine trying to locate a little bird, low to the ground, when you’d been focused on something as big as Bad Tiger? It would be off and away, flying low, before you ever managed to find it. And coming in? No one notices a little bird. Sparrow, maybe…something like that. What people don’t consciously see, they don’t record or report. It was as though he appeared and disappeared out of nowhere.”

John nodded. “Makes sense,” he said, but he was already lost in fascination, observing the spinning, flashing, elegant dance of the two birds.

This was, far more obviously, pure dance and play, far more than combat training, though both men were putting in at least some effort to stick to business. Lestrade’s owl once managed to capture the tiny merlin on the wing, claws gripping him and pulling him close. Another time he fisted his claws and connected, though even from where he stood John could see he’d pulled the punch, sparing the delicate little falcon the full weight of his blow. Meanwhile Mycroft darted in and out, tweaking Lestrade’s feathers and batting him playfully with graceful, tidy wings.

On the whole, though, it wasn’t battle—it was play, and even more, it was dance. They danced their birds together, producing something half-reminiscent of the aerial displays of a fighter regiment, but far more reminiscent of a ballet _pas de deux._ Tumbling rolls, spins, circles, drops—the two shared the sky, and reveled in it.

And then, fluidly, they dropped together, stooping, falling headfirst toward the ground—then up, wings bating, treading air…

And two dogs laughed at each other, and Sherlock swore again as a bright red setter bounded merrily after a gleeful mutt. They growled, postured, lunged at each other, demonstrated a truly terrifying illustration of two dogs in outright battle, so fast John couldn’t follow it.

And then up, again, the golden-white gryphon reaching for the sun, the red dragon behind, darted tail lashing. This time the _pas de deux_ was more vigorous, less cautious. Wings cracked against each other as they closed with each other. Forelegs wrapped around, pinning each other, dropping with all the weight of two great mythic monsters. John managed to track easily a dozen moments when, in a real fight, blood would have been drawn by plunging beak or snapping teeth or catching claws.

They dropped and carried the battle to the ground, crushing the grass, rolling the meadow flat.

It went on and on, the two moving from form to form in different pairings. Fox nipped the toes of dragon, leading to a bellow that had John once again fighting back howls of laughter. The ferret leaped on the mutt, running straight down the other animal’s spine like some crazy ninja gymnast. Sometimes they took their human forms, the DI catching the setter’s muzzle, gripping the ribcage, throwing the big dog to the ground—Mycroft returning the favor mere minutes later by catching the fox by the tail and dangling him, only to have to drop him as Lestrade twisted wildly, pulling free. It was those moments when John knew, with absolute certainty, that this was play as much as work, delight as much as combat practice. The smiles were as remarkable as the intense focus.

It ended with one final, laughing move. Gryphon grappled dragon, and they barrel-rolled over the meadow, legs grasping each other tight, back claws kicking. The dragon’s tail lashed elegantly. The gryphon struggled free, standing over the dragon laid out upon the grass, wings bating…

And then only Lestrade stood there over the dragon, smiling fondly. He leaned over and plucked a dandelion from where it had lodged between two spined scales of Mycroft’s jaw-ruff. “Silly _draig goch._ ”* He held out his hand, and Mycroft materialized out of his dragon form, allowing himself to be pulled upright. Lestrade handed him the dandelion, and to John’s amusement the man grinned, and tucked it behind one ear.

“Good session,” Lestrade said, smiling.

“Yes,” his sparring partner agreed.

Lestrade’s arm tossed lightly over Mycroft’s shoulders, like a footballer with a teammate after a good game. Mycroft’s head ducked, and he returned the gesture. They walked together, heading for their neatly folded clothes.

“Come on,” Sherlock hissed.

“What?”

“Come on. Before Mike catches us.”

“What?”

Sherlock smacked his friend, and began a fast, slinking retreat, creeping low, keeping the stand of willows between him and the two shapers now dressing in the meadow.

“What’s wrong?” John hissed, as they reached the hill crest. “For God’s sake, they didn’t know we were there.”

“We weren’t there,” Sherlock said, and glared at him meaningfully.

“What? Don’t be stupid. Of course we were…”

“We were not there.”

“What is it, Sherlock? I mean, they’re good, but you don’t have to be jealous. Hell, you mastered that Friesian in days. You’ll catch up with them, if you set your mind to it.”

“Of course I will,” Sherlock snapped. “Don’t be stupid, John. Let them keep their secrets. _Five_  shapes. Huh. Still... I’ll match them in no time.”

But he still harried John toward the main house, herding his friend ahead of him.

And he never said when he looked back from the high place, and watched for one brief moment as two men leaned together, in an easy intimacy Sherlock could only ponder on, in sudden wild conjecture.

 

* _Draigh goch_ = Red Dragon.   The dragon Mycroft dances is a Tudor dragon, kin and cousin and kith to the Welsh Dragon, which is bright red, and known as  _Y Draigh Goch._ I've always like to feel that Rupert Graves' childhood in Somerset, near Wales, and his years working with the team in Cardiff, would leak into Greg Lestrade, giving him a very primitive but useful knowledge of Welsh--at least enough to know a  _draigh goch_ when he sees one. So--Mycroft is a silly red dragon with a dandelion stuck between his scales.


End file.
